Lighthouse
by Hutchie
Summary: Retreating to his grandfather's lighthouse, Hutch needs time to think.  But Starsky is worried about him.


_Pull through_

Written for a prompt from Nickygabriel.

2,000 words

**bThe Light/b**

by Allie

Hutch climbed the familiar old steps spiraling upwards in the light. His grandfather had always called it the light, not a lighthouse. The light. It had passed down from father to son, and Hutch's father had spoken of the light also, though with less proprietary tones. He had tired of the light, though Hutch never did.

Hutch craned his head to peer upwards, through the steps and the middle of the light. The steps were made of metal, and had holes in them. Light shone through. They were attached to the middle of the light, and spiraled like a mollusk's shell till they reached the top, looking smaller and smaller. It was beautiful, as it had always been. Nostalgia tugged at him, affection for this great monument to guiding sailors to safety.

How familiar…and yet how different everything seemed, seen from a taller height. The light still made him feel small, safe. With a man's strength now, he didn't tire halfway up the steps. It had always amazed him how his grandfather could climb them in one go.

Back then Hutch had raced up the first steps, eager to be by his grandfather. Then he had lagged farther behind, his chattering turning to silence as his legs began to burn and he struggled with the steps. Grandfather would slow up for him and look back, encouraging him by his silent patience more than his rare words.

Grandfather had never been a talkative man, but in his taciturn silence he had shared much with Hutch, especially a love for the sea and the light. Grandfather had seemed so tall and tireless and strong then.

The last time Hutch had climbed these stairs with his grandfather, he'd been a young, strong policeman just out of the academy. He'd had to wait for his grandfather, who had seemed so short, tired, and weak—at least in comparison to the godlike figure he'd seemed like when Hutch was young.

It had made Hutch feel sad and protective to realize he needed to slow down for his grandfather now. He'd done his best to make it look as though they were matching speeds accidentally, instead of that he was slowing down.

They'd talked that day about the light. About grandfather's farm. About Hutch becoming a cop, and the kind of cop he would become. Hutch had done most of the talking, but as usual, his grandfather had listened so well, and asked just the questions to draw him out. Hutch had found himself revealing more of himself than he did to almost anyone.

That had been two years ago. Now his grandfather was dead, and he'd never see him again.

And he'd left Hutch the light.

#

A pounding on the door at the lighthouse keeper's cottage brought Hutch out of the doze he'd fallen into. It was such a cozy little home with the fire lit and a book in his hand; it was almost impossible not to drowse.

But now he jumped up, startled and wondering who it could be at this time of evening. He walked cautiously towards the door, his new policeman's instincts warning him to be cautious.

Outside, it was dark and drizzling. Probably a neighbor or someone who needed help. Who else would visit at this time of night? All the same, he wished he'd brought his gun with him—just in case.

He pulled the door open. A dark bear-shaped figure filled the doorway, and hurried to enter the room. "Oh good you're up," said Starsky. "I was starting to wonder!" He pushed into the room, and Hutch gaped at the soaked figure before him.

Starsky's hair was flattened, his curls nonexistent. His nose dripped with water, and possibly snot, as well. He reached up a very damp sleeve, sniffed, and drew it across his face. "Got anything dry, Hutch? I underestimated the r-rain."

He was shivering. Hutch forced his mouth shut, but couldn't stop staring. "Starsky, what are you doing here?" He hadn't seen his friend for over a month. They'd met up for drinks and talked about the academy (nostalgically) and their possible future partnership (wistfully).

Now his cheerful friend was standing here, in the keeper's cottage, sniffing and dripping on the flagstones.

"Anything dry?" repeated Starsky. "I just came by to check on you. I heard about—"

"Yes, okay," said Hutch hurriedly. So, it was all over the grapevine, even in Bay City where Starsky worked. "I'll get you something. Stand by the fire and warm up."

He retreated quickly, glad to escape the sympathetic, searching look in Starsky's eyes.

While Hutch sorted hurriedly through the drawers, his mind returned inexorably to that painful rawness: he'd killed someone. A young drug addict had been resisting arrest, threatening to shoot random people if the store owner wouldn't give him money—lots of money.

Hutch had seen no choice. He'd i_had_i to shoot.

And he'd learned afterwards that the boy was nineteen. He'd heard the boy's mother's frantic wail of grief—i_he was doing better, he was going to stop, why did you kill my baby?_/i

Hutch had taken as much leave as he could and run. He didn't know if he could face the streets again or not. Much less a gun.

How did you move past something like that? Even if he had done the right thing (and he still felt he'd had no choice), how could he live with this? How?

He found a dressing gown and brought it out to Starsky.

"Thanks, Hutch." Starsky retreated to the tiny, less-than-modern bathroom and emerged a few minutes later wrapped in the wooly, faded green fabric. It was very strange to see him wearing it; it had belonged to Hutch's grandfather.

Hutch held out a cup of hot cocoa, and Starsky took it gratefully, holding it between his hands. He sat and sipped it, getting a little cocoa mustache on his upper lip.

Hutch smiled to see it, comforted by the familiar, homey feel of relaxing with his best friend from the academy. Somehow seeing Starsky made him feel a little less gloomy, hopeless, and confused. Even though he knew Starsky had probably come here to interrogate him about whether or not he was planning to leave the force, Hutch couldn't be sorry Starsky had come.

However, Starsky didn't talk. He sipped his cocoa and gave Hutch a smile. He seemed to be recovering from his chill.

Hutch had finally settled into the silence when Starsky broke it. "So are you really thinking of quitting?"

The question was abrupt. Hutch felt he owed Starsky an answer that didn't hesitate around the question.

"Yes." He looked at Starsky finally, meeting his clear, blue gaze. "You probably think I shouldn't, but you weren't there."

Starsky nodded—once, concisely. "You're right. I wasn't. I ain't here to stop you, Hutch. If it's the right thing for you to do, then I want you to do it."

Hutch blinked. He rose and moved to the sink, rinsing out his cocoa mug, disturbed by Starsky's words. They left him unbalanced. He'd expected Starsky to say, "No, Hutch! You gotta stay a cop so we can be partners together!"

It had always been their plan. Was Starsky eager to give that up? Had it all been talk, just castles in the sky that friends built when they were feeling giddy?

He turned back to Starsky. "Why do you say that, Starsk?"

Starsky met his gaze steadily, and Hutch had the uncanny feeling that Starsky was seeing everything that went through his brain. It was one of the things he loved about Starsky, that the man could read him so clearly—and like him anyway.

Starsky's reply was quiet and emphatic. "I ain't rejecting you, if that what you think, Hutch." He got up and walked over to lay a hand on Hutch's arm. "You're my pal, and I'd love to be your partner. But I don't want you doing something you hate, just to be with me. We'll be friends, either way."

Hutch released his breath in relief. "I'm glad to hear it, Starsk."

He reached over and absently rubbed his friend's arm. "I don't—it's not that I hate my job. On many days, it's the only thing I can see myself doing. Even when it's hard, sometimes we make a difference. That matters to me, and I don't know another way I could make as much of a difference. Just last week, we had a call about domestic violence. i_And we got there in time,_/i Starsk. It was one of those situations that could've wound up in the paper, if we hadn't—a horrible situation. But we got there in time, we stepped in, it worked out." He turned to face his friend. "I mean, the family needs help—a lot of help, Starsk. But we started that process by intervening when we did."

He stared at Starsky, blinking, feeling perplexed. "But when—when something like this happens—" He swallowed. He couldn't say it out loud, even to Starsky.

Starsky gave Hutch's arm a reassuring squeeze, and waited patiently for him to say whatever he wanted to. That was Starsky—talkative, cheerful, in a hurry—except that he listened better than anyone Hutch had ever met except his grandfather.

Hutch returned the pat absently. "Starsk, I guess I just need some time, to settle it. It was the first time I ever—ever shot anybody."

There, he'd said it out loud and the world hadn't ended. In fact, he felt easier having admitted it.

"First time's always the hardest," Starsky said quietly.

Hutch looked at Starsky and saw reflected in his face that he was thinking of the war he'd been in, when he was far younger than Hutch. When he'd also had no choice but to shoot.

What Hutch was dealing with didn't begin to compare to the hell Starsky had lived through. Hutch wasn't sure he would ever completely understand that. But Starsky really did understand what he was going through, and no more words were necessary to explain what Hutch felt—unless he wanted to share more.

Instead, he changed the subject.

"My grandfather left me this lighthouse, did you know?" he said, turning his mouth up into a smile that felt tired, but close to authentic finally.

They moved back to the kitchen table and sat down by unspoken agreement, in psych.

"Mm-hm," said Starsky, nodding slightly.

"You did?" Hutch blinked.

"Yeah, I called your parents. They said you like to come here when you need to think. And they said your grandpa—I'm sorry about him, Hutch. I didn't know." His eyes held a warm sympathy.

Hutch swallowed. "Thanks, Starsk. You want more cocoa?"

He got up abruptly and turned to the stove, wetness touching his eyes. Starsky understood all too well about losing family members, too. It was strange what a relief that was, to know someone understood. Hutch had still been dealing with his grandfather's death, even though with the passing of months, everyone seemed to suppose he should be over it. He didn't know how long that grief would last, but it had certainly complicated his feelings over the light and being a police officer.

"I guess if I stayed and took care of the lighthouse, I'd feel like I would be making him proud," said Hutch.

"Maybe so," said Starsky.

Hutch smiled, remembering his last talk with his grandfather. "But he'd be proud of me if I stayed a cop, too."

"Yes, he would." Starsky got up, walked over, and without embarrassment or hesitation wrapped his arms around Hutch and gave him a tight hug. "Whatever you decide, you're my pal, Hutch. You do what you gotta do. And if you decide to stay here, I'll come up on the weekends and—and help you catch shrimp, or whatever it is you do for fun here."

Hutch laughed—a shaky laugh, but a real one. It felt good to laugh with Starsky again! He patted his friend on the back awkwardly, swallowing back his threatening tears. "I just need some time, partner. I think I just need some time."


End file.
